


Little Jaskier

by ms45



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Dubious Consent, Multi, Orgy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:54:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28823298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ms45/pseuds/ms45
Summary: Jaskier's love life hews just a little too close to a certain famous ballad.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	Little Jaskier

**Author's Note:**

  * For [witchertrashbag (intothegarbagechute)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/intothegarbagechute/gifts).



The 50th birthday of the Duc du Blois was exactly as sumptuous as you would expect. There was feasting, women, wine, women, jousting, women, mummers, women, gambling, women and Jaskier. The Duchess had been most insistent on Jaskier’s performance, keen as she was to continue sampling what she called "such a _talented_ tongue".

After only a few hours of performing, it was a balmy dusk and the bard was coming into his full power, so to speak. He had at least ten good offers of a quick duck into the bushes between sets, but kept darting his eyes around to see if he could round it up a bit more. In addition, of course, the Duchess would be expecting her own birthday present. Ah, there she was—!

—with the Duc’s burly arm thrown around her shoulders, looking like she’d seen her own ghost, and a penetrating stare straight from the Duc to Jaskier’s most precious possession. (To be fair, the brocaded and tasselled codpiece was probably a bit much. Jaskier thanked the gods he didn’t believe in that he’d opted to reject subtlety.)

The Duc’s stare did not cause Jaskier to miss the fact that the happy couple were in a group with a woman with a _very_ nice exposed back. It looked oddly familiar.

Still, the band played on, since the band figured that would give him time to formulate an escape plan, hopefully involving one of many enthusiastic volunteers. Jaskier had planned a series of doomed romances leading up to his really filthy works, but given the, ah… new circumstances, he switched to generic tunes about beasts, pirates and war, known crowd-pleasers that didn’t challenge his talents but hopefully distracted from any thoughts of adding sweetbreads to the birthday feast.

The audience seemed to enjoy it, even allowing for the odd drunken scream for “Fishmonger’s _Daughter_!”, and Jaskier made sure to circulate through the crowd, flirting shamelessly despite the gory lyrics.

> _For my love is lost at sea, at sea_  
>  _Down in the briny deep_  
>  _Waits in the waves for me, for me_  
>  _Forever more to sleep._

A burly young man in ridiculously tight trews narrowly missed spilling a tray of drinks on Jaskier as he pranced past - ah very good, servant’s entrance, remember this. Without missing a beat, he noted the particular topiary, heraldry and architecture as well as distance from the stage and stretch of the servant’s trouser area (what? a good spy notices everything). Satisfied that he had at least one option for a speedy escape, he continued his route of the ballroom, noting the direction of stairs, the entrance of servants, the presence of guards and similar helps and hindrances.

There was that woman with the unfashionably exposed but very nicely toned back. He carved out a route around her, hoping to catch a glimpse of her face. She wore a helm of some kind - oddly contrasting with the delicate bias-cut dress - and she steadfastly kept looking away from him, no matter how discreetly he skirted the dance floor to peek at her. She did not drink or eat, but stopped to speak to guests, including _oh shit_ the Duc, forcing Jaskier to abruptly reverse his path, ducking under a pair of servants carrying a roast boar on a giant platter.

The evening rolled on, torches lighting and voices bubbling as the revels became merrier and merrier. Eventually, Jaskier sensed an opportunity for escape as the talk drowned out the music. He kept picking idly at his lute, looking vague and distracted, but keenly directed towards that servant’s entrance.

“This way, Master Dandelion,” greeted a literal buxom wench as her voluminous chest bumped right into his fretting hand, causing an unpleasant discordance. Her plump, homely face contrasted nicely with her small waist and plunging neckline, and as all cats are grey in the dark, he followed her, not enquiring as to her instructions. The Duc and his wife were working the crowd above, and Jaskier assumed something along the lines of being given snacks, or better, drinks.

> _The house has many rooms and halls;_  
>  _Pies and pasties form the walls,_  
>  _Made with rich fillings, fish and meat,_  
>  _The tastiest a man could eat._

Jaskier noodled pleasantly as he followed the servant through winding stairwells and nooks, his eyes fixed to her almost spherical bottom, his imagination spinning wildly between fruit pies and fur pies. He almost missed a wonky bottom step, and his abrupt shriek caused her to whirl around and catch him in her arms, as perfectly as if he’d planned it. (He wasn’t above it, but in this case, he very much had not.) She helped him up and he grabbed a squeeze of her waist before letting her lead him down… where the hells were these stairwells going?

Finally! A door opened to a glowing ballroom, small and intimate, full of people drinking and yelling and standing around a low platform with a chaise-longue—

On which stood the Duc, looking like a werewolf dressed for battle, who immediately threw out a bejewelled gauntlet and bellowed “AT LAST! The guest of honor! Ladies and gentlemen, make very welcome our distinguished guest, Master of Arts and Tongue of the North, Master Dandelion!” The crowd roared.

Jaskier whipped his neck around to glare at the serving girl, who simply bowed with a simpering smile at the Duc and took herself to a dark alcove, swiping an hors d’oevre as she went. The bard was given no time to contemplate her betrayal, as the Duc’s massive hand landed on his shoulder and steered him to the stage. Draped over the chaise-longue was the mysterious woman, her face finally to Jaskier - no, not her face. The helm she wore had no features - no eyeslits, no grille, nothing but a chitinous shine that was somehow staring straight at him.

“Put your hands together, guests! Master Dandelion will be performing the sad tale of Little Musgrave for your entertainment. Ready your handkerchiefs!” Jaskier had not rehearsed any such thing, but the Duc hissed “Ready your beaten sword, _mummer_ ” as he left in a way that gave him no space to object, either to the choice of ballad or to being called an _actor_.

Thankfully, the ballad was known to one and all in various forms, and if he forgot a line from one version, he could easily replace it with another.

> _A holiday, a holiday_  
>  _The best one of the year_  
>  _Little Musgrave to church did go_  
>  _To see fine ladies there_

That was not how he had met the Duchess. She had been the owner of a racehorse that Jaskier had lost a horrible amount of money on - not gambling, but as part of a syndicate. When the beautiful animal had gone down in its first race and had to be put down, Jaskier provided comfort and solace in the best way he knew how, and then kept providing it long after the guilt and sadness had subsided. That was a really lovely horse.

> _I dare not go, I dare not come_  
>  _‘tis worth more than my life_  
>  _I see from the signet ring you wear_  
>  _you are Lord Darnell’s wife_

At the time, Jaskier knew damn well who the Duchess was, and at the time his thought was that any lover who cared overly about trivialities like "public exposure" and "execution in the town square" was no lover at all. He still thought this, even as he came to the line “he’s out in Tir Tochair, drilling a thousand men”, but would have liked greater certainty about how he was to die tonight. Little Musgrave was a long ballad, with dramatic instrumentation - he could draw it out for a while. Maybe the Duc would cool his temper, or at least get paralytically drunk.

> _Her little page o’erheard all they did say, and fast away he ran_  
>  _For all his youth and few his years he was Lord Darnell’s man_

Which little bastard had given him away? Jaskier almost fancied he could hear a familiar voice saying _you, idiot_.

> _What news, my beamish boy, what news I hear you bring?_  
>  _The Wild Hunt, the fall of Rome, the coming of the King?_

Jaskier shamelessly drew out the dramatic bits, inserting quite superfluous flourishes that had the audience roaring, their eyes shining with drink and sentiment, yet the Duc remained untouched, hairy tattooed arms crossed over his massive chest and smiling like a cracked gravestone. Some imp made the bard _wink_ at the Duc - because if he was going to die tonight he was going out in style - and gods, Jaskier saw all of his nine lives flash through the Duc’s eyes. (Bards have nine lives, right? Jaskier was on at least number five.)

But songs require concentration and rest to compose, and eventually Jaskier was going to have to reach the coup de grâce. He probably didn’t have to make such intense eye contact with the Duc on “it’s fine I like your sheets, but it’s best I love your fair lady wife who lies in my arms asleep”, or _quite_ so blatantly thrust his hips at the audience on the line “and I have not a pocket-knife”, but if there was an audience Jaskier knew how to work it was the crowd at a public gallows. The party whooped and screamed, waving their arms and spilling their drinks, and only the Duc’s smile looped the rope.

Finally, Jaskier took his bow to (naturally) roaring applause. The Duc clapped, slowly, deliberately. Then, just as Jaskier was opening his mouth to announce another song - any song, preferably an epic but even a barrage of nursery rhymes as long as he could stretch it out - his host slashed his arm out in a gesture that commanded an immediate silence.

“A fine performance, Master Dandelion! I had not thought Little Musgrave had quite so many verses,” to muted titters from the audience. The Duc turned to face the revelers.

“But for tonight, for the grand occasion of your host’s nativity, Master Dandelion will demonstrate for us his full array of skills. See for yourself, why our illustrious bard is known as the Tongue of the North!”

Before he could open his mouth, Jaskier had been brutally jerked to his knees in front of the masked woman, who reclined on the chaise-longue like nothing at all was happening. The shining, blank helm reflected nothing but his own reddened face (and the full extent of his reclining hairline, fuck it all to hell). Why did she look so familiar?

She hooked a long brown leg over his left shoulder - that is, the one away from the audience - and gently pulled him towards the shadows of her gown.

> _Say the word and we’re out of here, Bard._
> 
> _…?_
> 
> _The Duc wants revenge… and perhaps plausible deniability for enjoying a bit of man-meat. But I’m not here to hurt you._
> 
> _Yen?_
> 
> _Say it. Or don’t._

The Duc had his large fist in Jaskier’s hair and was firmly directing him towards her fine crupper.

> _I won’t._
> 
> _Sure?_

Jaskier grinned in a way he knew annoyed the hell out of her. He could almost see her behind the mask.

> _Punishing me by feasting on your magnificent garden? Don’t threaten me with a good time._

Her thighs parted and revealed a complete absence of smallclothes. The bard would not have expected anything less, or more. The audience murmured, all trying to shuffle in for a better view.

> _Fair warning, the Duc is hung like an ogre. Last call._
> 
> _Bring it, witch._

**Author's Note:**

> "The house has many rooms and halls" verse for The Land of Cockaigne is stolen from http://wpwt.soton.ac.uk/trans/cockaygn/coctrans.htm


End file.
